


Spell of Sandstorms

by Elsajeni



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Courtship of Princess Leia - Dave Wolverton
Genre: F/M, Force Training, Getting Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-04 14:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18606397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: "I can't offer what Isolder can," Luke says, and hopes that Teneniel understands all he means -- power and wealth, of course, the rule of dozens of systems, but more than that, the whole arrangement. The promise of permanence, a life together. Himself -- not fully, not in the way that Isolder can give himself to his chosen queen.She looks up to meet his eyes, and he can sense that she does understand. But her face gives nothing away -- she tilts her head to one side, her eyes innocent, and asks, "Is that your way of yielding to him? Or is there a 'but' yet to come?"He smiles, a little sheepishly, and says, "But."





	Spell of Sandstorms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



"I can't offer what Isolder can," Luke says, and hopes that Teneniel understands all he means -- power and wealth, of course, the rule of dozens of systems, but more than that, the whole arrangement. The promise of permanence, a life together. Himself -- not fully, not in the way that Isolder can give himself to his chosen queen.

She looks up to meet his eyes, and he can sense that she does understand. But her face gives nothing away -- she tilts her head to one side, her eyes innocent, and asks, "Is that your way of yielding to him? Or is there a 'but' yet to come?"

He smiles, a little sheepishly, and says, "But." Teneniel laughs, and some of the older women laugh, too, or roll their eyes; he doesn't dare glance at Isolder or the rest of the Hapans to see their reactions. "Teneniel, will you come with me? Even for a little while? There's so much we could learn from each other, and--" he can feel his face going pink, and drops his gaze-- "and I'd like very much to spend more time with you."

She's quiet for a moment, thinking. Eventually she says, "I must serve an exile. The sisters are agreed on that. But… there is nothing in our laws that says I must serve my exile on Dathomir. And what better use of that time could there be than to study the ways of the Jai, and learn how your magic and ours is alike?"

* * *

He considers, for about one minute, taking her back to Coruscant. It's where he makes his home, after all, to the extent he makes a home anywhere these days -- he's slept in it maybe ten nights in three months, but he does have an apartment there. And contrary to its reputation, it's not actually _all_ city; there are parts of the Manarai Mountains where Teneniel might even feel at home.

Parts. Of one mountain park, in one narrow corner of the planet. And even there, he finds it difficult to feel at peace, to shut out the noise of billions of minds -- it would be a cruel test for Teneniel, who has never been in the company of more than a hundred or so beings at once.

In the end, it's obvious. He does take her to his home -- to Tatooine.

It's peaceful, at least once they get away from Mos Eisley. The brief stop they make for supplies is more than enough proof that he made the right choice; Teneniel is visibly on edge, and only relaxes when the city is fading into the distance behind their rented speeder.

He's been back to the farmstead a few times before, has slowly cleared out what he can and made it more or less habitable again. It's not exactly move-in ready; nearly all of the furniture is gone, the old generators can only run a few hours a day, and of course, there are fresh drifts of sand collecting in every corner, blown in through the courtyard. But it's clean (well, except for the sand) and homey and out of the wind, and he finds himself grinning at Teneniel as they lay out self-inflating bedrolls in the courtyard. "Sort of like camping out," he says.

Teneniel laughs. "With a roof over our heads," she points out, "and soft beds."

"Luxury camping, then," Luke says, unabashed.

They settle quickly into a rhythm -- venturing out in the early morning, playing tourist for a couple of hours, then returning to the farmstead to rest and train as the sun grows higher and hotter. And as night draws in, and the desert cold settles on them, they turn on the little courtyard heater, pull their bedrolls up close and sit and talk.

Maybe it's just the cold, or maybe it's something subconscious -- some part of him reacting to the way Teneniel leans in close when they're talking late at night, her casual comfort with touch, the pleasure he feels when he gets her to smile. Whatever it is, he finds himself -- not every morning, but often enough -- waking up with his bedroll pulled up closer to hers than when they went to bed, one morning even with a hand resting lightly on her hip.

As far as he knows, she still means to go back to Dathomir, maybe even to go back to Isolder. She came with him because of the Force, for the connection they share through it and the promise of knowledge, not exactly for _him_. She's beautiful, her presence in the Force warm and inviting, but if she's chosen someone else…

_Something to guard against,_ he decides, and resolves to watch himself more carefully.

* * *

"You must know this place well, to work spells here so easily."

"Well, I grew up here," Luke says, and then, "What do you mean? Your spells -- do they work differently here than on Dathomir?"

"Of course. Everything is different here -- different life-forms, a different environment." Teneniel shrugs. "I don't know where to look, what to draw on."

Luke tilts his head, curious. "Is that how your people work spells? You draw on-- what, on the living things around you, the way you gave some of your life force away?"

"It's not usually so dramatic. But… yes, in a way. You reach out to the life around you, and take what it offers." She looks up at him through long lashes. "Is that not your way?"

"I did feel something like that on Dathomir," he says slowly, remembering. _Here, here… For you… A gift…_ For just a moment the memory chills him, a reminder of how close he came to death. Teneniel sees him shiver and shifts closer, leaning against him, and with her warmth, his perspective on the memory shifts -- feeling instead of thinking, and remembering the sensation as it was in the moment, warmth and kindness and comfort. "But it was… something special. It's not how I normally perceive the Force."

Even without seeing her face, he can feel Teneniel's surprise. "I've seen you do such powerful magic," she says. "Have you never thought of where that power comes from?"

"It comes from the universe," Luke says, as perplexed as she sounds.

"It comes from the _stuff_ of the universe," Teneniel corrects. "From the life it nurtures. Look--" She extends a hand, holds it out flat a few inches above the ground, and a few grains of sand rise from the courtyard floor to hover in midair below her palm. "Feel the thread I'm pulling, and trace it. Find where it's drawn from."

He can feel what she's doing; that part is easy. Her presence is a glowing beacon beside him, like a banked fire on a cold night -- something that draws him in, makes him want to get closer. With a little focus he can see the thin thread of power she's drawing, the grains of sand hanging on it like beads on a wire. But where it's coming from, or what else it's connected to--

He reaches deeper into the flow of the Force, feeling its currents around him and searching them for anything that feels the same. _There--_ it's just one strand in the weaving of a great tapestry, but he catches it, holds it gently in his mind and follows it--

It's a little arthropod, ten-legged, maybe three inches long. He brushes its mind, and though he doesn't feel the intention he felt on Dathomir, there is something there -- an openness to sharing, an awareness, in some way, that it's part of something larger than itself. Another branch takes him to a thick-stemmed desert plant, another to a reptile burrowed beneath the sand, and at every step he feels the same awareness, the same connection.

"It's amazing," he says, quietly. "I never thought of it this way. I knew, I mean, I was taught the Force connects every living thing, but to actually _feel_ every connection…" He shakes his head. "Show me more. How does it change the spell, to draw from different types of life?"

He's an eager pupil, practicing late into the night -- drawing on the Force comes naturally, and sensing the living things around him only a little less so, but combining the two is trickier, more complicated. Eventually it's Teneniel who calls a stop to the lesson, saying through a yawn, "It's late! Do the Jai never sleep?"

"I'm sorry," Luke says, laughing. "But it's very interesting. And you're a good teacher."

"This isn't how I imagined we'd spend the time together," Teneniel says, still smiling at him, and while he's trying to work out exactly what she means by that she adds, "I am happy to share what knowledge I have. But we can save the rest for the morning."

* * *

"Will you teach me the spell to call a storm?"

"Here?" When he nods, she laughs. "How can I? I've told you, the magic draws on the world around you, on the life and rhythms of it. There are no storms here, so how can you call a storm?"

"There are storms here," Luke protests, though that's the least important detail. "They're just different here than on Dathomir."

Teneniel reaches one hand up toward the sky, palm up; she sings a line or two and there's a shimmer in the air around her hand. When she brings it down to show Luke her cupped palm, he sees two tiny beads of water gathered on her skin. "Can you turn this to rain?" she says, her tone teasing. "A storm six inches across, maybe."

"A windstorm. Or a dust storm." He takes her hand, wipes the droplets of water away -- though he makes a mental note to ask about that, too; if they were on a wetter planet, could she really have drawn a cupful of water out of the sky? "Teach me the spell and I'll show you."

"It's more than just the words," Teneniel says, not unkindly but a bit like she's talking to a child.

Luke nods toward their joined hands. "I'll be able to feel your thoughts, your… intentions, or whatever you'd call the mental part of the spellwork. The way that you draw on the Force to cast the spell."

"By holding my hand?"

Luke can feel himself flush. "It makes it easier," he says, trying to sound casual, un-flustered. "If I'm--" _If I'm touching you_ suddenly seems like a dangerous thing to say, and he redirects, "If we're in close contact."

Teneniel raises an eyebrow, but doesn't pull her hand away. "If you say so," she says, and then half-shuts her eyes and begins to sing.

Luke stretches out with the Force, toward Teneniel and toward the desert at once -- he wants to feel her thoughts, yes, but also the effect of them on the wind and the sky, find exactly what threads she's pulling at so he can copy the spell. _There, that's the wind-- and that one, the searching one, that's where she'd find the rain--_

The wind does obey the call, at least; a swift cool gust blows through the courtyard, carrying a fine dusting of sand with it. But Teneniel opens her eyes and shakes her head, smiling at him. "No storms here," she repeats.

"I can call one," Luke insists. "Now that I see how you do it -- at least a wind like you called up, and I think I can bring up a whole storm."

"Try, then," she says, though she doesn't let go of his hand.

The singing probably isn't _necessary_. He can see how it might help, though -- serving the same purpose as the handful of Jedi meditations Yoda taught him, helping to focus the mind. He clears his throat, tries to clear his mind of embarrassment, and repeats Teneniel's song, reaching out with his mind as he sings.

Remembering her lessons, he looks for the living things around them, tries to think about how they would experience a storm. His mind touches a stand of spiny plants outside and he feels a thread of wind, the shifting of a few grains of sand against their stems -- he pulls cautiously at it, tries to strengthen and direct the little breeze. It swirls, stirs up more sand, and he tugs at it again, leads it like a skittish bantha back toward the farmstead…

"Oh," Teneniel says, her tone surprised, and he opens his eyes to see her looking up, watching the circle of sky over the courtyard as the little dust devil he's spun up drifts by. "A dry storm, I see it now. I can _almost_ feel it--"

She shifts her grip on his hand as she says it, seeming to concentrate -- on sensing the little dust storm, he supposes, and he's opening his mouth to say something encouraging when she suddenly twists to the right and steps back, pulls his hand with her, and comes to rest pressed against him, his arm wrapped around her bare waist and her firm grip pinning it there.

"Uh," he says, trying hard to ignore the warmth of her body against his, the scent of her hair. Above them, the dust devil falls back to earth, forgotten. "Teneniel…"

She turns her head enough to look at him, all innocence. "Isn't this better still, for both of us to feel what the other is doing? You did say, if we were in close contact…"

He has no idea what to say to that. After a moment's tongue-tied silence, Teneniel laughs and says, "Call it back again. This time I'll sing it with you, and you'll see how it's done."

She does as she says, joining in the song and adding her strength to his. He can feel her working alongside him, and marvels at it -- the power she exerts is incredible, the storm darkening the sky as the wind whips over and around them, and yet he can feel that it takes only a fraction of her concentration, that it's as natural to her as breathing.

Lightning flickers in the dust cloud above them, distant enough that they can't hear any thunder. Teneniel's smile as she watches the storm is fierce, joyful, and without meaning to Luke finds himself shifting against her, pressing closer, his hand on her waist slipping down to the waistband of her skirt.

"Not in the middle of the storm, surely?" she says, turning her face toward him again -- though as she says it, she's sliding her hand over his, guiding it lower, inviting.

It's a struggle to answer, to think straight. When all he wants is to touch her, to explore her body, to make her turn that fierce, sharp smile on him-- he forces himself to focus for a moment, to weave a bubble of clear, still air around them. "In the calm," he says, and can hear the raggedness in his own voice. "Teneniel--"

She kisses him, deep and breathless, rolls her hips against him in a way that makes him gasp, and he follows heedlessly where she leads, the storm forgotten.


End file.
